


Narcissus

by klismaphilia



Series: Vanity is the Most Beautiful Flaw [2]
Category: Original Work, Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic
Genre: Body Horror, Dark Side Inquisitor, Dominant Masochism, Eating Disorders, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Masochism, Masturbation, Mirror Sex, Narcissism, Other, Past Slavery, Psychological Horror, Self-cest, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-23
Updated: 2017-08-23
Packaged: 2018-12-18 22:28:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11884155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/klismaphilia/pseuds/klismaphilia
Summary: Force, how beautiful he was. A damned creature, but a worthy one-- Darth Nox, Forcewalker, Emperor.Venerated eternally.Nobody was more deserving of the throne than he.





	Narcissus

He wakes with matted hair, skin covered with the ethereal glow of glistening blood, oozing from his mottled flesh like starlight descending from the heavens. It's not unusual, for Irinei to wake bloody-- to be, and to feel, utterly _filthy_ in his haze of depravity. The feeling is so gripping that it pierces him to the very core; like nails tearing at his innards and ripping open his flesh, gutting him from the inside until his organs spill out across the floor of his own apartment-- or, perhaps, the floor of the Dark Council's chambers.

****

Oh, it grips him; the thought of being bled dry next to his superiors, his _lessers._ The weak Sith who built themselves up from an already worthy background, who used their power unchecked, abusive and disconcerting. Darth Nox has already fallen so far... but even now, at the very least, _he_ is something _real,_ not another manufactured sadist sent on to decay the corrupting system of the Sith hierarchy.

****

Salvation is something the Empire has tried too desperately to market, to make into propaganda as a futile last resort to manipulate others so they do not see the stupidity of the Sith themselves. The Republic is even worse, force-feeding their blatant lies about _freedom_ and _equality_ to anyone willing to give their ear, without ever following through, like the cowards they are. This two-faced galaxy has long been unraveling from its own fallacies, fraying at the seams with the influx of betrayal that pollutes the very core of reality. And nobody understands it, do they? _Nobody_ understands the need for order, for suffering, for fanaticism; radicalism is needed now more than it has ever been before.

****

And they say that those at the top are _expected_ to act with dignity? Laughable. Among these insignificant rats, Darth Nox finds that he alone is capable of being dignified, of being _regal._ A former slave, a slattern, a strumpet _,_ and yet even when he was clad in the exposing weight of flimsy purple fabric and golden chains, he'd been more fit to rule than these fools ever were. Why must he suffer them so? Their barbarism was revolting within the context of command, tempers both ridiculous and shameful. Although, when it came to the true face of shame...

****

_Well._ The Inquisitor himself rather misses the feeling of being draped in _rags._ Of being utterly degraded.

****

This... _urge_ for debasement was rooted so deeply in his core that it practically gave him life; he ached for shame, wished he could _plead_ for it, let the thoughts of subservience and slavery drag him through each action he took, each inner turmoil he contemplated. His body _craved_ shackling, beating and derision; being coated in streams of tar-like blood, bruising up as though he were an oft-beaten training dummy left out for others to channel their aggression. Irinei was years beyond the Academy, years beyond his life as a pleasure slave, servicing crime lords and thugs in the backstreet cantinas of Nar Shaddaa-- and still, his _desires_ could not be satiated.

****

_I know,_ the whispers in the back of his mind would hiss at his lowest moments, the times when his inner sycophant grew to be too much to bear, too much to hold in. The Sith would wake late in the night, his arms covered with bloody scratches and deep cuts that stained his green skin with a pitch sludge. His body always felt so sore... exhaustion burrowing into every atom of his mind and muscle, driving him further into his shell of repression. But that soreness was never _enough,_ never satisfying. Irinei needed to be greater, needed to be something more evolved _..._ something _lesser._

****

_I know how you wish to be humiliated. It makes your heart beat faster, your mind go numb. You long to be turned into another's toy, made to crawl on all fours like the dumb, subservient creature you are._

****

His primly-wicked hands caress his frail torso, trailing down over the protrusion of his ribcage. The flesh ripples where it's been stretched taut across bone; his fingers bracket each side of his waist like a belt, keeping everything in, holding his vitreous, maggot-infested gut together the best it possibly could be given the circumstances. He feels like a skeleton: so thin, so decrepit, so _weak..._ and yet the very ideation of such an image breathes life into him all the more.

****

_Useless little painslut._

****

_Pfaasking slave, punching bag, sex-doll, worn down and chewed up. Broken toys are no fun to play with, but you're so eager to be used, so eager to be_ **_condemned._ **

****

Irinei pulls the corset into place, fastens it about his anorexic figure, admiring the way black and gold plating offsets his corruption, pulling in all the unseemly parts of his being: the halo of sweat over his brow, the grime in his messy hair, the dark circles lining his eyes, black and blue blemishes all down his spine, his chest, his legs. All the years he's been given to live, and still his wish is to die beautiful, to die _thin,_ and _preserved,_ and _ravishing,_ the envy of all who dare to look on his power.

 

Like this, he looks beautiful.

 

Like this, he _feels_ venerated.

****

_You want to be dragged through the mud, forced into whatever position others wish to see you in. You need to be something_ lower _than an acolyte,_ lower _than a slave. Weak and needy and disgusting-- but_ coveted. _A possession for somebody else's keeping, incapable of independent thought. Humbled, made to beg and weep beneath another's boot, left to die in the dirt._

****

_Yes,_ the Mirialan agrees, eagerly, pressing his body forward into the mirror with a demanding selfishness and rutting his hips desperately against the broken glass before him. _Yes, yes, yes. I want to be owned, I want to be kept!_

****

His twisted, bony fingers curl around the onyx frame of the fixture, grasping to the unsteady backing as if for dear life, all while his hips buck and his cock sides against the shining edge of his own reflection. The dull glass is stained with a trail of sticky, seeping liquid that runs in rivulets down the length of the mirror. It accentuates his image as much as the blood, the deep contours of his figure, the starkness of veins under his paled flesh, black nailed and black-lipped from little more than inner rot. His tattoos stand out over his face, down his torso, as vibrant remnants of a past life, a past _beauty._ But the Sith Lord is more glorious now than he has ever been, a true harbinger of chaos, a _symbol_ for destruction, odium and vitriol. The mirror accentuates all of it-- his vanity, his potential, the thrum of each want and each aspiration worked into his unchecked lasciviousness, endlessly reflecting his debauchery.

 

In the recesses of Irinei's mind, he could almost think the thing a throne; a high-backed chair made from that same jet-black stone, sharp edges outlined with silver under his arms and a crown of barbs laid atop his head, perched in his hair to symbolize his treachery as much as his power. He imagines the golden ichor of the blood that runs in his veins dripping past his hairline and over his cheeks, staining his entire body with the fruits of his life-long labor, his endless toiling; Irinei's legs would be thrown over each rest for his arms, his body split open by his own lightsaber, hilted deep inside his clenching arse, his entrance puckered red and kept open with how often he might need it abused. His cock was arching, laid thick and heavy over his stomach, come enough to fill a goblet slicking his flesh even as a razor-edged ring pressed into his manhood just beneath the head, keeping him needy, keeping him _full_ with the rod slid into his urethra and spreading him out eternally.

****

As an Emperor he would have _ropes_ of silk, instead of simple cuffs: red and black and blue alike, wrenching his arms behind his back as his subjects threw him down atop his seat of power and took their revenge on his body, watching his toes curl as the black fabric of an open robe slid further and further away from his skin. Perhaps they'd flay him, whip him while he was all spread out and stuffed, stripes of skin torn under the crack of leather, his life's force staining everything around him, giving his subjects the reparation that the Inquisitor himself would never provide.

****

_Look at the monster you've become,_ his head reminds him, the trapped spirits laughing at the very insinuation of his fantasy. _Hatred and sorrow seeped into your soul, opened you up to your most violent dreams... untamed masochism, a hollow madman desperate to be worshipped._

****

He'd fall unconscious afterward, there on the very steps of his throne room, his face a swollen mess and legs spread out, arms broken from insistent manhandling. Perhaps when he'd been left, he'd cry-- recognizing his failure, his faults and his apathy, how pathetic he truly was underneath his self-righteous facade. Irinei Jivai, not an Emperor, but a filthy slave, crawling with diseases that could hardly be named, festering with them, for whatever that was worth. Laid out in pieces on the remnants of his own embittered success, the figure above him letting out only a disheartened sigh at his weakness.

****

His fingers are buried inside his body, probing at his insides, seeking out the place that will make him scream as he bleeds his consciousness into the force, his cock stiff against the mirror and shading his own being with gushing white as he stands before himself. The Inquisitor moans, his throat parched, a flash of white pulsing at the edges of his vision as his head tilts back and his eyes raise to stare at--

****

_Me._

****

_Force,_ how beautiful he was. A damned creature, but a worthy one-- Darth Nox, Forcewalker, Emperor. _Venerated eternally._

****

Nobody was more deserving of the throne than he.

****

Nobody was more deserving of _death._

****

Oh, how _loathsome_ he must be, how _malevolent_ in every aspect of his own being. Insane and demanding, an insecure narcissist longing for the sweet release of control, of his past.

****

He comes, violently, with a shout, arching forward and rutting himself all over the splintered surface of glass, eyes wide and bloody red, as haunting as they are tormented. The light in his mind bursts from the horizon of his own lowly upbringing, cresting over him with masochistic demand, and he falls to his knees, slack against a stretching black floor.

  
_It is smart,_ he muses, _that they--_ nngh _\-- locked me away as they did. For only_ I _deserve the greatest power in the galaxy_. _I_ **_am_ ** _their Emperor._

**Author's Note:**

> I use this character to vent. 
> 
> tumblr is @symphorophilian.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Under Nails](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11885277) by [FullMetamorphosis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FullMetamorphosis/pseuds/FullMetamorphosis)




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